


For This

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, John's a good fiance, M/M, Sherlock wants to get it right, Wedding Fluff, written for a tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 19:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12515352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: For John, for this, he needs to get it right.





	For This

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ради всего этого...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703919) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



John’s tie looks perfect, to begin with. It’s unfair. He never seems to think about his clothes, and yet every day of his life his unremarkable jeans fit his lovely arse as though they were made for it, his shoes are precisely buffed, his hair is faultless. He’s mastered the art of exalting the ordinary. He flusters me. I just saw him five minutes ago, in the front room, buttoning up his best jacket, which makes his shoulders look magnificent. He winked at me, and I blushed.

He’s waiting for me, and here I am in front of the bathroom mirror, again, leaning on the sink the better to minutely examine my (absurd, infuriating) tie. It looks fine. It should be fine, but as soon as I step away it feels a little too loose. I think that it’s starting to inch to one side, and soon it will hang crooked. So I come back, and tighten it, and then I step away and realize that now it’s pressing on my throat, and I can’t breathe and I’m not going to be able to say my few words with the dignity and clarity they deserve. So I come back and I loosen it again, but then it hangs askew; and really I might as well undo it and begin again-–

“Sherlock,” through the door. A gentle knock. Still courteous, at the strangest moments. This is our bathroom; he could just walk in. “All right?”

“Of course,” I say. It comes out cold, and there was a time when he’d have silently retreated, but now I hear a little laugh.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, fine.” I’ve broken out in a sweat; I can feel the dampness building along my hairline and mucking up the armpits of my new shirt. I hate the tiny room, the buzzing light above the sink, myself, the entire worthless tie-wearing world. He opens the door. Oh, God, he looks exactly right, his smile wry, his eyes kind. I’m a mess. I look at him, despairing, wanting two things only: to be kissed, and to be safe in bed with him at the close of the day, well finished with the necessity of ties.

“What’s wrong?” he says. “The cab’s below. You’re not scared, are you?”

“No.” I got through the worst of that two nights ago, pacing around the sitting room with my instrument held silent in my hand, trying to understand how I ever imagined I could make him happy for another half-century or so. How I could deserve that, or bear it. I never expected to live this long. Neither did he–I know.

“Then what’s the matter? Mrs. Hudson’s got our boutonnieres out of the fridge and her best hat on and she’s just about crying with excitement. I don’t think she’ll keep long.”

“It’s–you’re–I love you, but I can’t, John, I can’t get it right!” I’m losing control of my voice. He stays by the door, thankfully, and doesn’t try to get hold of me, or settle me down; only watches with a little line between his brows.

“Can’t get what right? The vows? Don’t worry, I wrote them down.”

“Oh–no.” I have an excellent memory. I’m not worried about the vows. “John, my tie. It’s rendered me useless.” One wears ties to a wedding, I do know that. I haven’t worn one since I was twelve years old and too strong to be forced. But for him–for this–

“Oh, for God’s sake!“ Revelation dawns over him. “Take the tie off, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter.”

“We won’t match.”

“We’ll look like us.” He’s stepped forward, into my space; I can smell his cologne, touch my nose to his hair, and his gentle, steady hands are pulling me free of the tie, opening my collar, cupping my jaw. He kisses me. He laughs into the kiss, and pulls away to lift my hair off my forehead and blow away the heat with such attention that tears come into my eyes. I blink them back. I'm reduced to a cliche—crying on my wedding day. He smooths my cheek, unaware, or pretending to be; blows into my collar, too, and kisses my damp neck, and says, “You didn’t have to work yourself into a sweat for me. I like you comfortable.”

“I’m never comfortable,” I say, before I think, but that only makes him laugh again.

“You will be later,” he says, “if I have anything to do with it. Come on downstairs, and let’s get married.”


End file.
